


Ghosts That We Knew

by Salomonderiel



Series: This Vicious Little World [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Demon!Stiles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:48:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salomonderiel/pseuds/Salomonderiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nowadays, Stiles is an American teenage kid who's going through highschool, and slightly more uniquely spends most of his time surrounded by werewolves. </p><p>It was slightly different, 125 years ago. For one thing, Stiles lived in a different country, had a different name, a different love, a different family. And one threat, one problem, that caused the Stiles of back then to sell his soul... </p><p>(This fic is choc-full of own characters, as it's set a FEW years before teen wolf is set, so give them a chance and I swear you'll love them... but there's a bonus scene with the gang we all know and love at the end! Oh, and the character death isn't PERMANENT, if you get my meaning. Well, I can't exactly send 'Stiles' to hell if he's alive, can I?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Love for you, if you've bothered to click on this seeing it's not entirely with the usual characters. Love for ANYONE reading anything of this series! The response I've got is AMAZING!
> 
> This thing comes with its own playlist, of sorts. Only made of Mumford's 'Ghosts that we knew', Matt Kearney's 'Nothing left to lose' and Jeff Buckley's 'Hallelujah', but still. I recommend ALL of those songs.

As usual, it was the creaking of the rag-and-bone cart that notified Jeremy of how late it had become.

The bell ringing, the axle creaking, and the familiar yells of the old man that Jeremy soon found himself mouthing along with, all made Jeremy finally succumb and pull back the sleeve of the heavy, muddied, torn, well-loved and well-worn overcoat to check the time on his watch. Ten past nine – no one could say the rag-and-bone man wasn’t punctual.

A notch on the side of the gold casing caught his eye. Frowning, he rubbed against it with his thumb. He must have caught it against something. Not too bad, it’d survive – besides, he had more.

Even so, he started to unbuckle it from his wrist. As he did so, he spun around on his feet, and began the walk back home.

His footsteps were quiet on the cobbled street, head low and collar turned up high. Not that he was avoiding anyone – he just didn’t like to draw attention to himself, in this particular area. It wasn’t uncommon for him to see some of the other... ‘gentry’ in such parts of the city, for less tasteful reasons than wanting a stroll, a change of scenery... and if one of them recognized him, it’d destroy everything his family had slowly built up.

He frowned.

If Matthew hadn’t already done that for him.

He turned the corner of the road, feet leading the way for him as his brain thought of other things. The watch turned over and over in his hands.

He’d missed dinner, but that was no hardship – Cook would always have something set to the side for him, which he could pick up before he retired, and his parents were accustomed to him not being present. Younger of three brothers, his presence wasn’t required, and if it was, they made sure to give him plenty of forewarning.

 _And_ they had his- the manservant he and his brother _shared_ remind him of the appointment every ten minutes.

Another corner, and the road brightened slightly. Jeremy raised his head, let his shoulder fall back, the collar not hiding so much of his face.

When a familiar face caught his eye, he smiled. He stopped turning the watch over in his hand, and held it out to the man sat on the pavement outside the ‘King’s Huntsmen’ public house. His smile widened, as the wizened old man took it from him.

“Thank’ee, Fitz!” the old man said, as Jeremy turned away and kept walking. He wanted to stop, chat, see what King had seen today, heard, how he’d done – but, as he too often was, he was late. If he got home any later than nine-thirty, there would, he had been firmly told, be trouble.

And anyway, King would be there tomorrow. He was outside that pub every day – hence Jeremy’s name for him.

When he finally reached the streets where the houses were painted white, not just whitewashed, he started to shrug off the huge overcoat, revealing a clean, well-made and tailored suit, complete with jacket. He hadn’t brought his top-hat this time, knowing that Jimmy wasn’t working at the Hart Inn, and he didn’t know if he could trust the boy that covered for him to look after it whilst he was out walking as Little Jimmy usually did for him.

But no matter. Top hat or no top hat, he was, now, presentable. Folded under his arm, and with only the lining showing, there was no telling the state of the coat he had been using as a disguise beneath.

It still took him near half an hour to get back to his house.

He winced when he saw the hansom waiting outside, before taking a breath, squaring his shoulders and walking up to the door.

The bright light over the door made him squint slightly, but it was of no matter. After all, it was only brighter inside. No one called out to him when the door clicked open – they did indeed have guests.

He should have been there.

As he dumped the coat onto the floor beneath the coat rack, amidst muddied shoes and the servant boy’s tattered clothes, Jeremy tried to figure out who it was, who was here – but the hansom was too new, he wouldn’t be able to tell from that alone, and the coats were all typical, fashionable, not too expensive, nor too poor. They could be anyone. Jeremy could be in any amount of trouble.

Giving up with the guessing game, he decided it’d be better for him to retire to his rooms, after purloining a snack from the kitchens, rather than intrude upon the socialising that was no doubt being conducted in the front room. He’d only make a fool of himself, and that just ‘wouldn’t do’, to quote grandma.

Apparently, however, the world had other plans.

He’d got no further than 3 steps from the coat rack when there was the click of a door opening, and bubbly feminine laughter filled the corridor.

Laughter, and women? So, not a meeting of _great_ importance, then, thankfully.

He grabbed a nearby pair of gloves, and tried to hold them in a way that suggested he’d just pulled them off, as the party rounded the corner and came into sight.

As he could have predicted, his mother was the first to speak. “Why, Jeremy Fitzgerald Carlston! How _nice_ of you to come calling!”

In front of any other guest, this would have been quote, ‘a poor show,’ unquote. But it turned out the guests were the Marshalls, and the Marshalls were _old friends_.

“Oh, hush, Vanessa!” Mrs Marshall tutted jovially, “the boy is an adult now, he may come and go as he pleases!”

“Yes, mother!” Jeremy agreed, grinning and wafting the gloves towards Mrs Marshall. “Listen to the poor woman!”

At that, his mother sighed affectionately, and Mrs Marshall giggled behind her laced hand. “Oh, but it _is_ good to see you before we go, Fitz!” she said. “Indeed, your appearance must surely convince us to linger a while longer!”

“Truthfully?” Jeremy asked, feigning shock. “I’d more expect my appearance to be a detergent, rather than a pleasant treat, I mean, who’d want to stay when _I’m_ in the building?”

“Now you stop that, young man, before my wife is forced to stay in this hallway and compliment your blighted presence ‘til the sun rises,” Mr Marshall grunted, but Jeremy knew the signs, and just grinned again.

“With you calling me blighted, sir, she might just have to!” he protested. “How else will my pitiful ego survive-”

The Marshalls and his mother chuckled and tittered over his quick wit, as they were prone to do, and his father snorted and yelled for a servant to help them with their coats, as he was prone to do. And that summons of the help seemed to be the cue for the farewell pleasantries to begin, and the hall was suddenly filled with more compliments. Jeremy found himself being pounded on the back by Mr Marshall, who in one breath denounced him as a rascal and affectionately called him ‘a good man, Fitz, you’re a damn good man’. Mrs Marshall waddled over to him, said it was a pleasure to see him again, and threatened to start waxing on about how Rosie would so regret having missed a chance to talk to him, but then a distraction came in the form of a servant – or rather, the wrong servant.

Jeremy’s father voiced his thoughts, calling out, “Simpson? Why are you here? Where’s the boy?” as the manservant Jeremy shared with his second eldest brother hurried down the steps and towards the coat rack.

“Taken ill m’afraid, sir,” Simpson explained apologetically, nimbly collecting Mr Marshall’s coat and efficiently helping the man slide into it. “I believe he’s with the cook now, sir, getting some broth, to build his strength back up.”

The man of the household harrumphed, and that was that.

“Just back from your stroll, Master Jeremy?” Simpson muttered, as he picked up Mrs Marshall’s coat from the rack. He smiled at the thank you she gave him before continuing, “It’s a bit late for you, sir, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Yes, well,” Jeremy said, catching Simpson’s eye before turning to address the whole group, “I got distracted by how well the Thames reflects the night sky. I swear, in some places, it looks like someone has simply scattered diamonds on the river’s surface.”

“You’d better watch this one, Mrs Carlston,” Mr Marshall harrumphed, peering down at Jeremy, hands flexing on the collar of his coat, and lips _almost_ curling into a smile. “He’ll turn poet if you’re not careful.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Jeremy’s father sighed. “Picture the peace we’d have if we could ship him off to the Lake District, to live with that fancy lot.”

Jeremy was all ready to defend his position – it wasn’t like he caused _too_ much fuss, as he was hardly in the house between lunch and dinner most days – but Mrs Marshall was laughing again, and a laughter such as hers was not one to be ignored. If its volume wasn’t enough to demand attention, the piercing pitch certainly was. No brain could expect to work through that sound. Only over a decade’s acquaintance with it prevent it from being a sorry sound. “Oh, Charles, stop being so hard on the boy!” Mrs Marshall finally managed to say, as her laughter faded to a slight giggle.

“Adult, Mrs Marshall, I’ll beg you not to forget the adult part,” Jeremy reminded, grinning down at her. “It is, after all, my only claim to freedom.”

“ _Please_ , son, claim that freedom!” Mr Charles Carlston, Jeremy’s father, exclaimed. However, just like Mr Marshall, his lips were threatening a smile.

“And perhaps now would be a good time for Vanessa and William to claim _their_ freedom, before they get irrevocably pulled into our little, unending quarrels,” Jeremy’s mother suggested, smiling widely, and with a slight chuckle everyone agreed. Jeremy stepped back against the wall, out of the way, as his parents said final farewells and the Marshalls bustled to the door. When the manservant did the same, a mere thirty centimetres from him, he nodded at the man once, formally, a thanks for his service.

There was one cold bluster of air, as the door opened, then everything was warm and calm and quiet.

Jeremy didn’t miss how his father settled his hand briefly on the small of his mother’s back, as the two of them looked forwards at the door, before clearing his throat and turning back to face into the house.

Sometimes, Jeremy felt like his only purpose in life was to ease the tension. “Kind sir,” he said, crouching, hands out, eyes wide and begging, “I am but a humble independent adult as of the past few days, but I long for comfort, just as any other human being – could you spare a poor man lodgings for the night, food, warmth, the air he breathes-”

Just like that, the frown lines left his father’s face, to be replaced by the wrinkles of laughter. “Oh, be silent, you terrible boy!” he chuckled, an arm briefly wrapping around Jeremy’s shoulders, pulling him out of his acted begging, and pulling him down the corridor. “Go! Depart! Leave my sight! Your mother and I still have some matters to discuss, and we don’t need your yawns to punctuate our conversation-”

“That was _one time-”_

“ _And_ ,” his mother cut in, coming up on Jeremy’s left side, “I know for a fact Cook has saved you some of the broth, and it will no doubt being going to servant’s stomachs if it’s not gone into _yours_ by ten.”

At the mention of food, curiosity faded, replaced by a more demanding rumble of his stomach. “Aye aye, captain!” Jeremy said, quite willingly, stepping out of his father’s clutch and heading towards the stairs that lead down to the kitchens.

“Oh, and if you see Joseph, send him to the front room, will you?” were the last words he heard, orders from his father, as his footsteps on the old wooden stairs drowned out all other noise.

The Cook tried to whack him with a tray she’d been holding as he’d entered, furious at him missing another meal, but he dodged it with practise and she let him grab the bowl of stew before letting him dodge his way back out again. He spoon and poured the stew alternately into his mouth, randomly ambling throughout the house, searching out his brother.

Eventually, common sense brought him to the small library the Carlston family could boast of, to see the second oldest brother, the one just a year older than Jeremy, sitting straight-backed in one of the armchairs, a book perched on his lap – no doubt something on the latest developments made in mathematics, or something equally as tedious. He didn’t even look up as Jeremy entered.

“Brother dearest,” Jeremy called, around a half-full mouth, “You have had your summons.”

Joseph raised his eyes from the text before him, but nothing else moved.

Jeremy sighed. “You. Front room. Parents want. Now.”

With a weary groan, Joseph picked up a leather bookmark and set it firmly between the pages, before closing the book, setting it neatly in the centre of the small chair-side table, and _finally_ rising from the chair. “Fitz, it wouldn’t be your death to use correct grammar,” he said.

Turning to stand clear of the doorway, Jeremy rolled his eyes. The tone of distaste when Joseph said ‘Fitz’, and not ‘Jeremy’, was still abundantly clear, but as _father_ had been the one to suggest Joseph called Jeremy by the nickname he’d acquired in society, who was _Joseph_ to disobey. It was made it even worse that father had only made the comment in passing, genuinely a mere suggestion. Joseph was, to use one of the servant boy’s terms, that much of a boot-licker.

“Joseph, it wouldn’t kill you to smile, but I don’t see that happening any time in the near future,” Jeremy tittered, shaking his head with mock disapproval. As Joseph declined to reply and instead strode past Jeremy indignantly, Jeremy hastily downed the last of the stew, deposited the empty bowl on a table, and hurried after him. “So, why do you think you’ve been summoned?” he asked, hurrying down the stairs a mere two steps behind his brother. He gasped. “Wait – do you think they’ve finally figured out it’s _you_ that’s been stealing the apples from the kitchen?”

It was a poor shot, something worthy of a ten year old, but it was worth it for the scowl Joseph made. “No,” Joseph bit out, noticeably speeding up. Jeremy matched him easily. “No doubt it shall be to confer with me about matters you aren’t capable of both taking seriously, or even understanding. Politics, accountancy, property management and the like.”

He was lying. He had no idea. If he’d ever bothered to take his younger brother’s view into account, Jeremy could have told him instantly. It was in the way his parents had laughed that bit more, when the Marshalls were here, how they had stew for dinner rather than roasted or cured meats. It was in that momentary, comforting rest of his father’s hand on, not only his mother’s back, but then around Jeremy’s shoulders a second later.

It was Matthew. It was always something Matthew had done. There was only one thing in question; how big the debt is this time.

By almost running, Joseph managed to reach the front room before Jeremy could pester him some more, slowing down only in time to open the door and enter with decorum, before closing the door behind him.

Jeremy should, after having done as instructed by his parents, have retired either to his rooms, or perhaps to the library, or music room.

Jeremy should do a lot of things.

Instead, he leant back against the wall just to the left of the door, where he knew the acoustics were the best.

They still weren’t perfect, not as good as an upturned glass to the above floorboards – but the room above the front room was the music room, which would undoubtedly by occupied by his sister and he didn’t want Cassandra to know anything was wrong.

Only a few lines would be both audible and distinct, through the gaps between the door and the frame, whenever someone raised their voice. But it was enough.

“Need to put that boy on a leash...”

“...be put in prison, if he’s not careful...”

“...perhaps too late...”

“...this time?”

“Last I heard... debt had reached...”

He didn’t hear the number, the debt his eldest brother had managed to gain in the previous evening.

But the dead silence that followed was impossible to misunderstand.

As his energy left his legs, Jeremy sunk down to the floor, back against the wall, head falling onto his knees. Behind him, in the front room, he heard something smash.

“...ruined us,” he heard his father yell, voice rising to a roar, “He’s _ruined us!”_

“...can we do?”

“...nothing. There’s nothing...”

Curse his brother. Curse the first time dice had landed in Matthew’s hands, the first time his brother had touched a playing card. If his ‘brother’ had stepped into the house at that very moment, Jeremy feared his brother wouldn’t make it five steps.

Self-preservation instincts kicked in, as the front room fell silent, telling him to move. Any second now his parents and second eldest of the brothers would emerge and separate, trying to find whatever solace they could.

As if the threat of debtor’s prison was something that could just be ignored.

So Jeremy, mind blank, body moving as stiffly as a toy soldier, pushed himself upright, tracing familiar route up the stairs, across the first floor landing to the music room.

The sound of the piano was clearly audible; whoever was playing had not quite shut the door. It was music, but rough and with frequent mistakes due to a clear lack of practise of this particular piece. It was simple, and sweet, and made a ghost of a smile momentarily show on Jeremy’s face.

He pushed the door open quietly, eyes fixing immediately at the form of his younger sister rigid at the piano. Making himself smile, even if it was only weakly, he stepped up behind her, setting a hand lightly on her shoulder. As she started, he chuckled lightly. “Isn’t it past your bed time, Charlotte?” he muttered.

She spun around, dislodging his hand, and staring up at him with wide blue eyes. “But Fitz, it was calling to be played!” she argued, but with a voice just as quiet. She, like him, understood the strange calling for quiet in the music room where conversation was concerned. It was as if the air demanded music, and music only. “Can’t you hear it? It needs to be played!”

“And be played it shall be,” Jeremy promised, gently starting to lift her up from the chair and onto her feet. “Just not by you, because _you_ are going to bed.”

He didn’t miss the longing look she sent the violin, resting against a stand in the far corner. “Don’t even try, I know you always go for that first,” he warned, and her loud groan of protest made him chuckle, just slightly. “No, you’re not going to win and you know it. Bed!”

With one last harrumph not far different from the harrumph their father was so famous for amongst the household, Charlotte left the room with a dramatic flair that made Jeremy proud. He walked slowly after her, and absently shut the door she’d left wide open.

Then, deep in thought, he settled onto the piano stool. His fingers lightly brushed over the keys, closed his eyes, picked a piece of music, and started to play.

He found it easy, when playing music, to forget. Not even anything in particular – because God knew there was enough in his life for him to worry about. Whilst playing, all he had to think about was the upcoming notes, it was so _simple_ ; you play this, then this, with a change of key that meant to you did _this_ differently and the tempo would rise _here_ – it was all laid out, neatly, a pattern. It had structure, something that Jeremy’s life seemed to be sorely lacking these days.

He’d had a routine. He’d managed to construct a pattern, around everything that had been wrong about his life, and had made it work, so much so that he thought the troubles had been over. That had been before Matthew had been introduced to his first taste of gambling.

And now, he’d sold his family for the thrill of the roll of a dice, or watching a horse run itself to death, or the hope that the next card would be an ace –

Jeremy almost stumbled over a note, almost played a bar incorrectly. Almost, but not quite. He breathed, concentrated, and kept playing.

They’d have to disown him. There was no other choice. If they didn’t disown Matthew, the whole family would be thrown into debtor’s prison.

Debtor’s prison. He bet the man who’d thought that up had given himself a cheery pat on the back, before settling down in his armchair, by his nice fire in his nice country house the government had paid for and sipping away at the finest port he’d had imported especially. Because in _theory_ , it worked. In _theory_ , it was a sure-fire way to make sure everyone had their debts paid.

In reality, it was a death sentence.

Not just to the man, woman, child or family thrown in. For the people left outside, too.

Who would do business with the Carlstons, now they’d had to disown a son for incurring a debt bigger than the whole of the Carlston estate? Who’d risk putting money on a family like that?

And what social life would they have, now that the son society loved most had fallen so far? They wouldn’t be spoken too, but spoken of, in hushed whispers and stolen glances behind the ladies’ fans and beneath the gentlemen’s hats.

Jeremy’s fingers tensed on the keys, creating a crescendo where one shouldn’t exist.

This wouldn’t do. This wouldn’t do at all. He was ruining Beethoven.

So he stopped thinking, and played.

A few minutes in, his eyes closed. It wasn’t a hard piece, in comparison to some of the pieces he’d played. He’d played it so many times, his fingers could move on memory alone. He barely needed to think, just get lost in the composition.

He was near the end when he heard the door behind him open ever so slightly, and then close, the footsteps of the person entering so silent they were near inaudible.

Jeremy ignored them. He knew they’d let him finish.

He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t tear his focus away from the movement of his fingers, which ivory keys they’d press and when, even as a soft hand settled on his shoulder.

They didn’t speak until he’d held the last note, until it had faded to near silence. Then, and only then, did a soft voice say, “It’s late, Jeremy. You’re tired. Come to bed.”

He hummed out, leaning back against the body standing behind him, as fingers brushed down his face, his neck, a palm resting on his chest.

“Moonlight Sonata? You played it beautifully.”

“Don’t I always?” Jeremy asked, lips twitching, eyes still shut. He reached up, entangling the fingers of the hand resting on his chest between his own. The grip tightened on his hand, briefly, before a thumb ghosted over the back of his fingers, rubbing at the hairs there. “But it wasn’t perfect, tonight. I was a bit heavy-handed.”

Jeremy could feel the deep chuckle that followed his comment, the chest he was leaning back on vibrating. “P’raps, but I can’t say I noticed.” As he stepped back, he pulled Jeremy up, and Jeremy let him. He was led around the piano stool by their interlocked hands, until he and his love were face to face. A speck of dust on the man’s shoulder, the usually pristine black jacket, caught his eye, and he smiled slightly. “Your uniform’s getting dirty,” he said with mock disapproval, flicking the speck of dust away with one finger. “You’d better make sure your master doesn’t see that.”

Another deep chuckle, and a finger hooked beneath his chin, tilting his head back so he could look Simpson in the eye. “To be quite frank,” Simpson said, lips tilted in a slight, lopsided smile, “I’m not sure the master cares all that much how my uniform is.”

“Well,” Jeremy muttered, smiling widely back, eyes darting down to the tight fitting waistcoat, back up to Simpson’s lips, and finally his eyes, “I think he might care how you look in it.”

“And here I was, thinking he wasn’t that shallow,” Simpson sighed, in a tone that would have been disappointment, if that half-smile still hadn’t been in place.

At that, Jeremy chuckled. “Now, what would give you that idea?” he asked quietly, before finally reaching up to press their lips together.

A hand lightly pressed against the small of his back, the other rising to cup the side of his face, soft, gentle touches that matched the feather-light pressure of their lip. But Jeremy needed more, and let it show, one hand grabbing at Simpson’s arm, the other holding the back of his head, fingers becoming entangled in the dark hair. He needed to feel him, his arm, his lips, needed to be encircled and surrounded by and drowning in him.

For a moment the kiss deepened, teeth brushing against the soft skin of their lips, before with a heavy breath Simpson pulled his head back, forehead resting against Jeremy’s. “Not here, love,” he muttered, letting his thumb brush over Jeremy’s cheekbone. “Your sister.”

“I sent her to bed-”

“And you think she listens to you?” Simpson asked, lips twitching. Unable to stop himself, Jeremy let out a puff of air, a short burst of laughter. “Exactly.”

It took a second before Jeremy felt he was able to stand, exist, without being in Simpson’s arms, and Simpson waited until he was ready. Eventually, Jeremy breathed out and stepped back, pulling his forehead from Simpson’s, letting his hands fall from the man’s sides. “As you said, then,” he said, still breathing deeply. “Time to retire to bed.”

Simpson stood formally to attention, and with a tilt of his head, said, “As m’lord wishes.”

Jeremy chuckled, and knocked Simpson with his shoulder as he passed him to the door. “Not after eleven, Darren. After eleven, let me dream that I’m not society’s puppet.”

“And yet,” Darren mused, following Jeremy out of the music room and lowering his voice as he entered the corridor, “for someone who likes times so much-”

“Oh here we go-”

“You can’t seem to get your head around half nine-”

“Ten minutes, I was _ten minutes_ late-”

“ _Last_ time you arrived home after nine-thirty, it was because you’d been _mugged_ ,” Darren whispered, his voice rising, showing one of those rare moments where his calm exterior slipped.

“Yes,” Jeremy admitted, turning to look over his shoulder slightly, fingers itching to reach back and take Darren’s hand – but he couldn’t, not in the open corridor. “And I managed to get two new pairs of boots for the James, the poor boy, mother was already berating him for his shoddy state, and those two muggers went home barefooted and with a new and quite possibly life-saving knowledge of not to underestimate someone just because they’re wearing shiny leather shoes.” As he was speaking, he finally reached his quarters, opening the door to a room softly lit by the candles on the walls, and a few lanterns.

“Yes, but what if the next ones don’t?” Darren asked, and the instant they were both in the room and the door was shut all pretence of distance fell away. Darren grabbed Jeremy’s arm and spun him to face him, hands tight on Jeremy’s upper arms and his brown eyes staring down into Jeremy’s with a determination and fear that made Jeremy draw a breath. “What if the next muggers don’t underestimate you? What if there’s more than two? What if they’re more heavily armed? What if a good right hook isn’t enough to take them out? What if-”

Following years of practical experience, Jeremy silenced Darren the only way he knew how – by pressing their lips together once more. It was brief this time, nothing more than a peck, really, but it served its purpose. “You worry too much,” Jeremy told him, holding Darren’s head still as he looked up into his eyes, trying to convey how inherently stupid it was, to spend so much time making himself feel sick with worrying over someone like _Jeremy_.

“There ain’t such thing where you’re concerned,” Darren contradicted, and it was clear he was aiming for sarcasm, but he was unable to stop a slight tone of truth slipping into his voice.

Smiling with unashamed, unbound love, Jeremy leant forwards again, rising on his tiptoes slightly to press his lips to Darren’s nose teasingly. Darren sighed out wearily at the action, but there was affection hidden beneath the exasperation, Jeremy knew it.

“My superb fighting skills aside,” Jeremy said, attempting to diffuse Darren’s fear, and feeling warm when the man smiled wryly at the comment, “Bed, I think. Don’t you agree?”

“Sounds like a plan I can get behind,” Darren agreed, stepping up to Jeremy, and reaching for his buttons. He started to undress Jeremy, who waited patiently with arms outstretched, with an efficiency that was present in all the actions he performed in his post as manservant. At the tug of his jacket on his arms, Jeremy moved his arms without having to think, this routine so familiar, in the best way.

“Who received the substantial charitable donations tonight, then?” Darren asked from behind, as he pulled off Jeremy’s jacket. When Jeremy tilted his head questioningly, Darren brushed a finger lightly over the naked inside of Jeremy’s right wrist.

“Oh, the watch,” Jeremy muttered, “King. It’s going to start turning cold soon, I thought he could do with a bit more money.”

Darren hummed contently. Unlike how a normal manservant would, he also untied Jeremy’s tie and collar from the back, looping his arms around Jeremy’s neck. In this position, he could press his lips to the soft skin beneath Jeremy’s ear. Breathing out contentedly, Jeremy leaned back into the press. He lifted his arms, giving Darren room to move his arms beneath, so they were wrapped around his waist. From there, Darren could reach the buttons of Jeremy’s shirt. Slowly, Jeremy started to breath in time to the rise and fall of Darren’s chest, pressed against his back.

Here, he could relax.

The only item of clothing Darren removed from the front was Jeremy’s trousers, unbuttoning them, and pulling them down carefully, hands above them, rubbing over the length of Jeremy’s legs.

Watching him, Jeremy smirked, remembering how awkward that had been, before he’d finally summoned the courage and acted on the hints that were, he’d realised later, being thrown at him.

He was so lost in thought, then, that Darren had to slap his ankles to get him to lift his feet up so the trousers could be pulled away. Then, Jeremy waited, as he always did, for Darren to hang up the clothes, before pulling Darren towards him to start work on his love’s clothes – his nimble pianist’s fingers, as Darren called them, unbuttoning the fine-fitting waistcoat, working away until the two of them were left in only their underclothes.

That had been the first move he’d made on Darren. And, somehow, it was a move that had stuck. Neither of them minded that much.

He was never quite as smooth at it as Darren was, but he usually still managed to undress his lover without causing either of them to fall over – save for that one time – and he even managed to press a kiss to the nape of his neck. But Darren insisted on helping him hang up the manservant’s uniform, after being told off by Mr Carlston, that first morning, for the creases on his trousers.

“I think,” Darren muttered, looking across to the window, “it’s going to be warm tonight... now, if I take off my undershirt, will you behave yourself?”

Jeremy gasped, stepping back in shock, a hand even rising to press to his chest. “Behave myself? Me? How dare you!”

“Well, you’d better at least try,” Darren told him, hand reaching for the bottom of the cotton shirt, “because I intend to sleep tonight – intend for _you_ to sleep tonight. So you can keep your cold hands to yourself.”

Somehow, Jeremy still found it in him to be surprised that Darren cared that much about _his_ sleeping patterns, not just his own. He really shouldn’t be so surprised, he thought wryly to himself, not anymore. But it wasn’t like it was a bad thing, to be pleasantly surprised, casually reminded how much he was cared about. “No, truthfully, I had the same thing in mind,” he admitted, permitting himself a few seconds of admiring Darren’s chest as he removed his undershirt, before moving to remove his own. The heavy lifting work Darren did as part of his duties really did him no harm. “And I will confess to being tired, and wanting sleep – must be due to the, _busy_ night we had last night, eh?” he suggested, with what he couldn’t deny was horridly flirtatious wink.

To his pleasure, Darren was only able to keep a straight face for a few seconds, before taking Jeremy’s undershirt from him with a short chuckle and a shake of his head. “You’re – what’s the word – _incorrigible_. That’s what you are, you’re incorrigible.”

“And proud of it!” Jeremy declared happily, jumping back onto the bed, and wriggling until he was under the covers. He waited and watched Darren put away both their undershirts, before impatiently calling, “are you coming to bed, or are you going to spend the evening reorganising the wardrobes?”

Darren shot him an impressive scathing look, before finally closing the cupboard door, and making his way around the room, blowing each of the candles out, one by one, until the only one that was left was the one on the table on Darren’s side of the bed. Jeremy shifted to the side as Darren lifted up the covers to slide in beside him, uttering an obligatory comment about the unacceptably low temperature of his feet, before Darren silenced him by looping an arm around his waist, and pulling him flush against his chest.

“Lights out?” Darren asked, voice soft and low, his breath brushing over the soft skin of Jeremy’s neck. Rather than reply verbally, Jeremy nodded. A few seconds later, the last flame of a candle was blown out, and the room fell into a comforting, warm darkness.

“Whatever it is – what it is that’s troubling you – can you talk about it?” Darren asked, barely more than a whisper. When Jeremy froze ever so slightly in his arms, Darren chuckled lightly, and added, “Yes, I did notice. You can’t get something like that past me, m’afraid.”

“No, I know,” Jeremy said. Almost unconsciously, he burrowed back further into Darren’s arms, against his chest. “I just... didn’t want to worry you.”

“Well,” Darren mused, “I think we’ve already established that I worry too much, whether I have cause to or not.”

The wonderful thing about Darren was that Jeremy didn’t have to spend ages deliberating over the right words to say, the best way to explain something. Darren just – he always seemed to know what Jeremy meant. He could speak what was on his mind, _whatever_ was on his mind, whatever mad phrasing his brain came up with, and Darren would understand, when not even Charlotte did.

Which would make this so much easier.

“Matthew,” Jeremy muttered, so quite that for a second he wasn’t sure if he was speaking loud enough to be heard. “It’s Matthew.”

And Darren wouldn’t think for ages, either. That was another thing. He wouldn’t make you wait as he thought, he’d say it, straight, not cover and lie and pretend. He said things as they were. “So I guess it’s starting to get serious,” Darren muttered, mouth pressing against Jeremy’s shoulder blade and he rested his head on Jeremy’s back. “Well – I can’t pretend I know anything about any of this – and I can’t pretend it’s not bad – but I do know that with your education, you could take up a career, if it came to that. Lawyer, in government, or something. It _would_ mean you’d have to stop giving the poor your gold watches, though,” he said, his tone half apologetic, and yet also not lacking in irony. Jeremy smiled, albeit briefly. “And don’t waste time worrying about me – I’m relatively sure you’d give me a decent reference, so I should find a job easily enough, if it comes to that.”

But sometimes, Darren did lie. And Jeremy didn’t need to see his face, to see that uncertain twitch in his smile, to know that, then, had been a lie. As times progressed there was less and less call for manservants, less and less empty spaces and jobs –

If the worst happened – and the worst wasn’t far off – Darren would become one of the unemployed. One of the hundreds in London that lived on the streets, begged jobs from pub landlords, or ended up in a tannery, spending 18 hours of a day over vats belching out fumes –

The image of Darren in such conditions – conditions that Jeremy had _seen_ , when he went on his walks, had _seen_ kill people – imagining that – Jeremy couldn’t breathe.

Darren must have felt it, how Jeremy’s chest seized up, how his heart had started to thud desperately against his chest, because suddenly he was whispering comforts, was reaching for Jeremy’s hand and promising him things would be fine, simple lies that’d do nothing more than make it harder to bear later...

“It won’t come to that,” Jeremy bit out, his hands holding Darren’s so tightly that he was scared he might break them, but he couldn’t stop himself, he couldn’t, “It won’t, God I swear, I will not let it come to that, I _can’t-_ ”

“You won’t lose me,” Darren promised, arms tight around Jeremy’s waist, hands clenching back just as firmly, “Hey, hey I promise, it’s not gonna happen, it can’t – you won’t, you won’t lose me... I’ve got you... it’s okay...”

Slowly – so painfully slowly, and only due to the rise and fall of Darren’s chest against his back, Jeremy managed to get his breathing under control. Darren kept up the mantra, mouthing it into the nape of his neck, that it’d be okay, that they had each other, that he wasn’t going to lose him...

Eventually, Jeremy found a reason to believe it.

He rolled his head around, slightly, so Darren could hear him clearer as he whispered, “I love you.”

He felt the mattress beneath him bend slightly as Darren pushed himself higher, leaning forwards to press their lips together one last time. “I love you,” he whispered back, before settling down to sleep.  

It wasn’t long before Darren’s breathing evened out. As he always could, Jeremy could pinpoint the exact moment Darren slipped into unconsciousness from how his arm relaxed around his waist, falling from a tight hold to being limp and heavy.

Which made it easier to slip out from under it.

He didn’t get dressed in full day clothes, just grabbed a pair of trousers, a shirt, knowing it would all be hidden beneath one of his big winter coats. He moved as quietly as he could, every though focused on not waking up Darren – he didn’t know how he could explain this. He knew Darren would never accept it.

There was nothing that was making him move quickly – he had until dawn before there was any risk of anyone realising he was gone – but it just seemed impossible to move slowly. He almost knocked over a vase, with how his hands were shaking, flying everywhere, as he reached for the framed family photo on his bedside table, and then almost dropped the frame as he tried to pull the photo from it. On second thoughts, he grabbed the small trinkets box beside it.

He made a detour to the kitchen, collecting a few other things. He also picked up the worn satchel that was hanging over the back of a chair, placing everything he’d collected into it.

He hoped he had everything he’d need.

Jeremy had heard it by accident, originally. Sat in a pub, buying a few friends what was probably the first meal they’d had in a long time, he’d heard the local medium holding a session in a neighbouring room. Heard her speaking of devils and angel and spirits, and boy if that hadn’t set the local beggars at his table off with their gossiping and superstitions, tales of what had happened to me old mate John and the haunted house on Whitechapel Street and how the Widow Jameson had cooked up the rich husband’s death of a cold with a picture, a box of trinkets and a crossroad...

The recipe, if it could be called that, had stuck in his head the way the predicted cost of the new Tower Bridge had stuck in his head, or the city’s intake of pork had stuck, or even the names of the Queen’s immediate in-laws had stuck in his head, after he’d been told it at that dinner party however many months ago. Jeremy’s head was filled with random facts he never planned to use again.

Except, perhaps he was going to use them again.

From the kitchen, he made his way to the front hall, without stopping, thinking, or looking back. He flung his heavy, black wool coat on, and closed the door behind him silently as he left.

Five minutes later, he was in the shiny and new Trafalgar Square, sat beside a prised off slab of pavement and mound of clay-dense earth.

Another five minutes after that, and his soul was sold for ten more years and a small fortune on the stocks.

It hadn’t taken long, because Jeremy didn’t have many questions, or care much about the small print. The man appeared, smart suit and a smart smile to match, eye burning red, and he’d asked what Jeremy had wanted and Jeremy had told him. Simple fortune for his family, he’d said, from a legal source, and just general happiness for the family. When he was told it’d cost him his soul, all he did was nod. His response was the same, when he was told hellhounds would collect his soul after ten years. He did hesitate when the man told him the deal would be sealed with a kiss; he hadn’t kissed anyone but Darren since he was sixteen.

Yet, somehow, he thought his conscience would survive this one kiss.

The crossroads demon was short, with rough lips that stank of rich scotch. He chuckled when Jeremy pulled away sharply, and made a sarcastic comment about lack of appreciation of good scotch when Jeremy pulled a face at the taste lingering on his lips. Then, with a flying comment of, “Until your death, then, kiddo,” the demon was gone.

Heart thudding, Jeremy’s eyes darted around the square, searching, seeing, but there was no one, no one. With a strange gasp, choking, it might even have been desperate _laughter_ , Jeremy collapsed back against the wall behind him.

He didn’t... _feel_ different. He still felt scared, for one thing, and his chest still hurt with the tension, and he had a headache starting. Nothing unusual there. He was damned cold, too. He’d expected it feel like he was lying in wait on a guillotine, after, what with a ‘sold’ sign stamped over his soul, his life having a definite end, but strangely, he felt like the blade was gone.

For once, he didn’t have to worry about Matthew destroying everything, something that had been a perpetual concern for the last three years.

His family was safe.

Charlotte could probably go to that conservatory in Paris she was always going on about. Hopefully, Matthew would take this a huge shock back into the reality he’d been dodging, and take it as a cue to stop wasting his life, and do something _productive_ , but Jeremy doubted it. But their father would scare some sense into him, at least. Joseph could follow their father into the stocks business, earning money in the growing banking business, just as he’d always dreamed off. And, unusual human though he might be, Jeremy _did_ feel a bit happy that his least friendly brother could be happy. His parents could enjoy their days, and one day his father would retire, perhaps live in the family house in the country, leave the city house to Jeremy; Matthew had long forfeited his claim, and everyone knew Joseph longed for a house, not in Charing Cross, but Whitehall. Perhaps, if his father retired in under ten years, Jeremy might get to enjoy it. But he found he didn’t mind too much if he didn’t.

And Darren would stay his. His manservant, his carer, his secret love. For the next ten years.

With a soft smile settling into place, warm and seemingly immovable, Jeremy pushed himself back onto his feet. He pulled his coat closer around himself, and glanced up to the sky. He hadn’t been lying, earlier. Sometimes, the sky did look like it was sparkling with diamonds, and sometimes the Thames managed to become a copy.

They wouldn’t have to sell the family house, now. That would had been the next thing on the list, Jeremy knew, but they wouldn’t have to. They could go there in May, for the spring and summer, just as they always did. And Darren would be coming, this year. Jameson had requested the time off to visit family in Liverpool, so Darren would have to come and be manservant to them all, in the country house, tending to Jeremy last, and staying there. And with everyone out doing different things, exploring the local villages, Darren would have the majority of each day off. Jeremy could take him to the secret clearings he’d found, in the nearby forest. Or grab him and a picnic and go out to the lake, and teach him to fish. Did he know how to ride? Could Jeremy take him riding? If not, Jeremy could teach him. He’d enjoy that, Jeremy knew, learning something new.

Jeremy looked left, before crossing the Strand, not really expecting anyone to be out at this time of night. If they were, they were more likely to be sneaking home through shadows, having spent the night in a whorehouse, or gambling den.

There was a carriage, as it happened, but Jeremy figured they were far enough away, and the driver would slow down when they saw him crossing the road.

Days in the summer sun, with Darren. Nights together, curled up on the small bed Jeremy had in the country home, with the sheets kicked off in the warm nights, their bodies pressed flush together in spite of the summer heat. Curled up together, hands interlocked and breath brushing over each other’s skin as the morning sun broke through the curtains, Charlotte playing the violin in the room next door, Cook yelling at the maid below them, and no one wondering where Darren was because no one got changed out of their night clothes before midday.

Jeremy smiled.

Ten years of that, he could survive.

The carriage hadn’t slowed down.

The horse screamed as it tried to swerve around him. He had enough time to look up, see his _brother_ , his _Matthew_ , hands on the reins and laughing and shirt creased and whiskey stained and looking at the friend to his left, before the corner of the carriage slammed into Jeremy.

The wheel went over Jeremy’s stomach.

His head slammed into the cobbles.

The world went dark.

*

For the next two hundred years, all Jeremy knew, was fire, and knives, and blood, and pain.

It took him forty years, before he forgot his second eldest brother’s name. His mother’s, father’s, and little sister’s names soon followed.

After near fifty years of torture, and ten years of being the one holding the knives and turning up the fires, he forgot the name of the eldest brother.

A hundred years in hell, and he no longer knew his own name. It was burnt from him, like so much more, leaving nothing more than black smoke.

Another five years after that, and the demon formerly known as Jeremy Fitzgerald Carlston stopped turning whenever he heard a soul scream the name Darren.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, extra scene with everyone's favourites genius, hyperactive demon, and werewolf.

It was never good, Stiles had learnt, to come back from a visit to his dad to find a certain Miss Lydia Martin perched on the steps to his porch, perfect little pink Gucci heels and all.

“They’re nice,” Stiles said, waving a hand at the shoes as he swung himself down out of the jeep. He’d found it always paid to start a conversation with her with a compliment. And, yes, he’ll admit, even after a year or so of _definitely_ having moved on (in some very hot, steamy, and yet also some very sweet and endearing ways), he still found it easy to compliment her adorably dangerous strawberry-blonde person. “New? A present? The suit your... feet... wonderfully!”

Okay, so he found it easy to find stuff to compliment. Didn’t mean he was _good_ at it.

She raised a neat eyebrow at him, before shuffling over on the top step, and patting the space next to her seductively.

Sighing, Stiles sagged in a way that was most probably visible, and gave in. He shuffled forwards, Lydia smiling proudly as he submitted to her will.

Again.

“You realise that Derek will have heard me return,” Stiles said. “He knows I’m here. He probably knows you’re here. You kidnap me, and he’ll know of it. You can’t get away with it.”

“Oh hush,” Lydia tittered, knocking her shoulder against his, and, to his surprise, _didn’t_ pull a pair of handcuffs from her purse, but a folder.

“I’ve also spent entire weekends locked in Scott’s room, listening to him trying to make sense of chemistry, so trying to boring me to death won’t work out well either.”

At that, Lydia sighed in exasperation, slamming the folder against Stiles’ shoulder. “Why do you persist in thinking I’m trying to hurt you?” she asked, pouting, but her eyes were glinting.

“Because you usually _are!”_ Stiles yelled back, leaning back and putting his hands out to protect himself from any more sudden and vicious attacks of paperwork. “Do you really need me to list the evidence?”

Apparently, logic was still an offensive mechanism that worked on Ms Martin. She readjusted herself, set the folder down on her lap gently, and said, “It’s only been five times, Stiles, don’t exaggerate, and each of them has been as part of a perfectly sound and genius plan that worked out all right in the end. Save for that one time I took you shopping. Now, are you going to behave, or am I going to have to give Derek more baby pictures?”

“There are _more?”_ Stiles gaped, in equal parts horrified and in awe of the woman before him. At her unwavering gaze, he sighed, and sagged. “Fine. What is it?”

“Something interesting, I think,” Lydia said, eyes suddenly lighting up with excitement. “So you know how I got you drunk a few weeks ago and managed to get you to tell me all you remembered about your life before you went to hell?”

Stiles levelled a glare at her.

“Good! Well, after that, I started up a correspondence with an expert on London Victorian History at Oxford University.”

“Naturally.”

“Mm-hm. And with his help and name behind me, I managed to get into the archives, to find... _this_.” With a flourish, she pulled a sheet of paper from the folder, wafting it about a bit, before letting it fall onto Stiles’ lap.

Sending her one last look of consternation, Stiles picked up the piece of paper, and frowned at it.

It was a news article, from the Daily Mail... from 1887. A photocopy, obviously, and not perfectly straight.

It was detailing the death of a prominent member of society.

_It is with a heavy heart with which I inform the public of the death of Jeremy Fitzgerald Carlston. Young Mr Jeremy, known affectionately throughout society as ‘Fitz’, had only just finished celebrating his 21 st birthday when, late yesterday evening, he was ran over on the Strand at midnight. His family say he had gone out for a night-time walk, something they said is not uncommon, and anyone who knew Fitz will believe this. The murderer of this loved man has not yet come forwards... _

“Um... there’s a photo,” Lydia said tentatively, her sudden voice making Stiles jump. He looked up from the article, across to where she was watching him, scared. In her hands, she was holding a black and white photo, another photocopy. “It’s – it’s of the funeral, it was on the next page, in the newspaper... apparently, your death was pretty big news.”

Stiles snorted. “I should hope so!” Lydia laughed at that, and any tension there might have been just slipped away. He took the photo from her hands, and stared at it, picking out faces, some half-hidden beneath black umbrellas, top hats, and black lace.

As he tried to find the familiar, Lydia kept talking. “The day after you... died, your father made a substantial amount of money on the stocks, and kept making money, it seems. One of your brothers caused a bit of gossip by vanishing from society for a while, before re-emerging a year later by announcing his wedding to a Rosie Marshall. They had two daughters. Your other brother became a successful banker, and remained a bachelor. Your sister ended up playing the piano for an orchestra in France, got married to a cellist, had a son who also played piano. Your parents died of old age, after retiring in a house in the country somewhere. Your sacrifice wasn’t for nothing...” she trailed off and fell silent.

Stiles wanted to feel happy at the news. And he guessed he did. I mean, it’s good to hear that someone’s done well. But...

“Do you recognise anyone in the picture?” he heard Lydia ask.

Slowly, eyes still scanning every visible face, Stiles shook his head. “No. None – wait,” he said, words forming and being spoken before he truly understood what he was doing. “Him,” he muttered, squinting and pointing at a man in black jacket and black waistcoat, holding an umbrella out for a man who looked significantly better off. “Him – do you know who he is? What he did after I died, if he ever married?”

He tilted the picture towards Lydia as she leant into him. “No,” she mused, chewing on her lower lip as she thought. “I don’t know... he looks like a servant, in those clothes. Why?” she asked, frowning up at him. “Why do you want to know?”

Stiles didn’t answer for a second, eyes fixed on the man’s face. Why was he so entranced by him? The man didn’t even look sad, wasn’t crying like everyone else seemed to be. He just looked... blank. “I don’t know,” Stiles muttered eventually, letting the photo fall back onto Lydia’s lap, giving up. “I guess it just felt important.”

“Well,” Lydia said, thankfully going with his closure of the topic, and collecting the pieces of paper back up and putting them away. “I _did_ find out that _you_ were a promising pianist... perhaps we need to put you in front of a piano one day, see what you do?”

She was smirking at him so slyly, Stiles didn’t think he’d get a say in the matter, but he laughed anyway. “Sure, why not,” he said carelessly, still grinning, “The worst I can do is burst all our pet werewolves’ ear drums, nothing major.”

“Who’re you calling your pet?”

Stiles grin widened as he heard heavy footsteps on the wooden decking behind him, as his favourite alpha finally came out of their house to say hello. “You, and you know you are!”

“I know no such thing,” Derek said blandly, slotting into place on Stiles’ left. He leant in to press his lips to Stiles’ once, and Stiles smiled into the kiss.

“Eugh,” Lydia declared loudly. Stiles didn’t break from the kiss, but waved a bad sign in her general direction. “ _Well,_ ” Lydia said in reply to that, clearly affronted, “if _that’s_ how you’re going to be-”

Stiles laughed and finally pulled away from Derek as Lydia pushed herself to her feet, and _strode_ back to her cute little Toyota, sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling away, out of the forest, without a backwards glance.

“Why was she here?” Derek muttered, still looking after her. “Anything important?”

Stiles shook his head, unconsciously leaning back against Derek. “Nah, not really.” As a memory suddenly came back to him, he straightened up suddenly, and twisted his body around so he was facing Derek. “Scott’s left, for the weekend, gone, zip, vamoosed,” he said, the words falling from his tongue. “Finally. They left. Allison dragged him off. Romantic holiday. They’re _gone_. Have you-”

“Told the rest of the pack that if they come within a mile of our house I’ll claw out their vocal chords?” Derek asked, lips half twitching into a smile. “Yes.”

Stiles paused, considering the words. “Not exactly how I was going to phrase it, but it works, and at least you’re getting more anatomically correct.”

Derek shook his head, smiling affectionately. Stiles just grinned. “Soooo, _lover,”_ he said, drawing out the ‘r’, “Are we alone?”

“Yes, Stiles,” Derek sighed, “we’re alone.”

A whole weekend. No pack business. No annoying best friend. A newly refurbished house, the summer sun, and a picnic Stiles already had ready waiting for them in the fridge. Stiles smiled, pressing his lips to Derek’s once more. “Perfect,” he said.


End file.
